


A Thousand Dead Lovers

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [6]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bigotry & Prejudice, Captivity, Courage, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark Ages, Drama, Dubious Consent, Freedom Fighters, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Ideology, M/M, Master/Slave, Mentor/Protégé, Plot Twists, Plotty, Politics, Power Imbalance, Romance, Self-Discovery, Self-Sacrifice, Sexuality, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy is a simple shepherd-boy. Harry is the warlord who takes him captive.</p><p>This world is an alternate version of the Dark Ages, in which the people of Britain are divided between the Kingsmen, those of civilized society who submit to a king of royal blood, and the Wolfmen, a tribe of barbarians whose leadership is settled by combat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Dead Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Kahlil Gibran’s _The Madman_ : “In my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.”

* * *

 

The wind-whipped wilderness was populated by tall, swaying grasses and tall, strapping people, warriors that were known for their dogged, unfailing strength. The sheer, rocky cliffs that ringed the wide plains were rain-slick and insurmountable, their black, brutal stone unscalable by human hands.

But then, the Wolfmen didn’t consider themselves mere humans. They wore wolfskins and furs and leathers, their bodies bristling with knives as curved and deadly as fangs or claws.

It was rumored that they ate their prisoners. Why else would not a single prisoner have managed to escape? The Wolfmen were said to have unnatural appetites, carnal and otherwise, and gory tales of their conquests were sung by many a bard at many an inn, much to the spellbound horror of ordinary villagers.

Eggsy was one such villager. He was a shepherd-boy from a poor, fatherless family, whose life revolved around the sheep he raised and led to graze and sheared, and the mother whose virtue he desperately tried to protect from the jeering wastrels of the village. He had a little sister he doted on, and for whom he bought candied apples from country fairs, even if it meant foregoing his meager lunches. On Sundays, Eggsy helped the monks with repairing the ancient local monastery, in exchange for being taught how to read and write.

It was not exactly a happy life, but it was his. A life he would never return to, now. His mother and his sister would be alone, their humble farm unguarded, and their livestock would soon be pillaged by greedy neighbors, his mother married off to whoever managed to bribe Mayor Valentine into issuing a marriage license without a proper wedding. The monks might decry such an ungodly act, but when had their cries ever been heard?

Eggsy huddled miserably in his corner of the slave-pen, amongst the dozens of cowering captives, and wondered if this was how his sheep felt. Caged in. Trapped. Helpless. He’d been taken from his fields, clad in his shepherd’s smock, which did nothing to keep the chill out. The air was cold and the ever-present drizzle made it colder, Eggsy’s threadbare clothing clinging to his skin. He crossed his arms, not only to stay warm but also to ward off the lusty gazes of the Wolfmen, who were more appreciative of his form than men ought to be. 

This was among those unnatural appetites, then. Such desires were condemned by the Church, and regardless of his own secret leanings, Eggsy had no wish to be claimed by half-animals such as these.

“Up,” said a Wolfman in a brown cloak, whose thin face and bald pate reminded Eggsy of the monks he’d befriended. Unlike most of the Wolfmen, he was clearly not a fighter, for he leaned upon a rough-hewn cane, and had a missing right foot. Perhaps he was a warrior before, but no longer. “You,” said the Wolfman, to a boy next to Eggsy, “and you,” to another lad, “and you,” to Eggsy. “Get up.”

Eggsy stood gingerly, his heart pounding.

“I am Merlin,” said the Wolfman, “and our chief has sent me to choose a… squire for him.” His speech was more refined than Eggsy had anticipated, but the wicked hook of his smirk hinted at what a so-called squire was for. Not very monk-like, after all. “You three are sufficiently able-bodied, and if you are chosen to serve him, you will be spared the attentions of our tribesmen.”

The other two boys immediately straightened, despite their horrified pallor, for surely it was better to be used by a single man than to be used by a hundred. Eggsy, however, hesitated; if he put himself forth, then he would be condemning someone else to hell on earth, and of the remaining boys, the first was significantly younger than Eggsy was, and the second was far too slender, far too breakable, probably a wealthy merchant’s son rather than a peasant’s. Eggsy was sturdy by comparison. Durable.

So Eggsy ducked his head, hunched in on himself, and didn’t step forward. He couldn’t save _both_ boys, but he could, at least, save one. If he made himself look pathetic and uninteresting, he would hopefully be overlooked. The thought of being passed around the campfire that evening made him sick, but the thought of betraying his conscience made him sicker.

A pair of boots entered Eggsy’s vision, joining the cane-and-foot that belonged to Merlin, and Merlin said, in a surprisingly comradely tone: “My lord. Did you not accord this duty to me?”

“I did,” said a voice as dark and smooth as the slate of the surrounding cliffs. “But my curiosity drew me out.”

“Your hunger, you mean.”

“Nonsense. I have a purely philosophical interest in the proceedings.”

Merlin snorted. “Pure? You?”

“Hush. You’re making me out to be a Sybarite. These sweetlings will gain a frightfully bad impression of me.”

“You’re frightful enough by yourself,” Merlin said.

Eggsy, startled once again by the refinement of the supposed barbarian chief, let his eyes flicker upwards briefly, taking in broad shoulders clad in gleaming leather armor and a fine gray pelt, a weathered countenance with unexpectedly noble features, and a strong hand resting upon the jeweled hilt of a sword.

There was a dangerous patience to the man, a lupine stillness, and Eggsy had the distinct sense that he could erupt into violence at any moment. That apparent sophistication was but the polish upon a bladed weapon, a dazzling distraction from the weapon’s actual purpose.

Eggsy dropped his eyes quickly, resuming his unappealing mousiness.

“What do you think, Merlin?” The chief sounded contemplative. “Is it courage, throwing oneself onto a spear to spare one’s fellows, or is it foolishness?”

Eggsy stiffened.

“That depends on the number of spears,” Merlin said, amused. “How many spears do we have in our camp, Lord Hart?”

“A great many spears, I’m afraid, quivering with eagerness to be launched into soft flesh.”

Eggsy’s cheeks burned. He stubbornly refused to look up, despite the taunting, which was cruel and unnecessary. Did _Lord Hart_ imagine he could terrify Eggsy into volunteering for his personal service, when Eggsy was the likeliest to survive the mistreatment of his troops? The merchant’s son would be a blubbering mess before an hour had passed, and the youngster who was at least a year Eggsy’s junior wouldn’t even last that hour.

“T-take me,” pleaded the merchant-boy, already tearful. “Please.”

“No,” said the chief, indifferently. “I prefer a bit of fire in my companions.”

Companions? They were slaves!

The same hand that had rested on the sword’s hilt rose to cup Eggsy’s chin, to lift it. “Look at me,” Hart said, and when Eggsy did not obey, he laughed. “Such a pity, that you almost succeeded in hiding your true nature from me.”

“Is it not you who hides his true nature?” Eggsy had begun shaking, but the words tumbled out of him anyhow, reckless and angry. “You, who hides his viciousness behind a veneer of manners?”

“My, my.” The chief didn’t seem offended. “A tongue as sharp as that lovely jaw. Quite a find, Merlin.”

“Oh, take him to your tent and have done with it,” Merlin said, evidently tiring of his chief’s willfulness. “I have work to do. And back to the pen with you,” he said to the rejected candidates, who looked at Eggsy with such loathing that Eggsy flinched.

“Merlin is my trusted advisor,” Lord Hart said to Eggsy, “and as such, I would be remiss in not following his advice.”

Eggsy couldn’t bring himself to move, until that large hand clamped around the back of his neck and dragged him forward, as a cowherd might drag uncooperative cattle. Eggsy stumbled in Hart’s wake, too shocked to attempt an escape, not that it would get him anywhere.

“You may call me Harry,” said Hart, and the name was so lackluster for the leader of the savage hordes threatening Britain that Eggsy gaped. It was a name more suited to a pudgy barkeep with a bustling wife. “I have no fondness for being addressed as ‘master,’ although you will have to call me that, outside the confines of our tent.”

“Your tent,” Eggsy said, “and you _are_ my master.”

“Will you argue with me at every turn?”

“Will you free me?”

“Not from the fetters of your circumstances, mayhap,” Harry said, with a mysterious smile. “But certainly from the fetters of your soul.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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